The Petulance of Emotion
by FirenzeFuomo
Summary: Reeling in the months after Ishval, Riza can't take the pace of her mind and intoxicates herself. The following day, when she's to report to duty at work – and to Roy Mustang – she recognizes that it was a severe mistake. WARNING: blood, language, brief mentions of suicidal thoughts.


It had all felt so numb, so indifferent and unimportant, so average and mediocre and gray and fine, until she asked for her I.D.

She was a middle-aged woman, her skin brown from the sun and her wrinkles layering together like worn leather. She barely peered at her customer with half drooped, disinterested eyes, hardly even turning her head to ask for the identification. She probably could care less and only asked for such a thing because she was required to do so.

But Riza Hawkeye, who's tired eyes rivalled the clerk's greatly, did care. Only moments before, Riza had lifted and dropped the bottle onto the counter unbefronted, staring at nothing in particular and feeling even less. Not even the tickle of her half-neck lengthed hair, just barely too short to pull back - which she normally found aggressively irritating - bothered her this night.

Everything was unimportant, regular and dull, so average and mediocre and gray, until the woman expressionlessly asked to see her I.D. to ensure she was of legal age to purchase the rather large bottle of whiskey.

Riza hesitated, a little lurch in her stomach reminding her of what it was like to feel, and reached into her pocket to take out the small pile of cards. They were snapped together by a black clip. On top was what she seeked, the one stating her name and date of birth and age, the one the woman had asked for.

It was her military I.D, decorated by her serial number and a picture of her a week after returning from Ishval; they had stripped her from the academy to deploy, and she'd never gotten the chance to be assigned the I.D. until the war had stopped. Suddenly holding that card, her fingers resting gently on the edges, woke the emotions hibernating deep in her brain. Awash with sudden guilt, embarrassment, and a deep basin of shame, she limply handed the card over to the clerk. Shame at being there, at that moment in that store, purchasing a bottle of whiskey with her military identification card to prove she was of legal age to be making such terrible decisions.

A gross dislike for herself began to blossom in the pit of her stomach. God, she was such a terrible soldier. An undignified piece of human garbage. Any idea of changing the country for the better was long buried six feet under ground, and the form of an uninspiring and unremarkable 20 year old woman had put it there and taken it's place, a woman who was just the lukewarm backwash of anything astonishing and the mold of forgettable clay that could hardly hold its spine.

The apathetic clerk barely looked at the card and handed it back to her. Riza thinly registered pocketing it and paying for the whiskey before shoving her shoulder into the convenience store door and walking out.

Walking home with that whiskey sitting in the crook of her elbow, encased by a brown paper sack, was walking home with the creatures of Ignominy and Self Hate - yet she could hardly hold the patience to wait to take a drink of it before she stepped through her front door.

* * *

It was strange, the way the walls began to rotate like that - how they'd spin several degrees to the right, traveling in a semi-circle, before rolling back up to stand straight like they ought to have. She wondered if she could make them spin all the way around, and took another drink.

The glass made a _ping_ sound as it was dropped back onto the small wooden table. The noise seemed to echo off her barren walls, filling the dense air and playing on repeat in her ears. It was so quiet in that apartment, why was it so quiet? She turned her head to look over her shoulder, her eyes traversing around the room, glancing into each corner and staring up at the ceiling, wondering why the place seemed to never have any sound to it.

But she should have been used to the quiet, right? Yes, a few times her father had thrown a work-induced tantrum and she'd heard his curses and shouts from the room upstairs, but largely, the mansion she'd lived in was silent. She had wandered around the grounds alone, she had cleaned off the countertops in solitude, she had made her prairie grass dolls in companion with the couches and floorboards and often was at complete peace with that.

This apartment was not a mansion, but it held the same amount of occupants from her childhood home, save for one.

But things were different now. She didn't have those prairie grass dolls. She had this bottle of whiskey, and this water stained glass she drank from. She admired the glass with her cheek in her hand, her elbow on the table. Her other arm reached for the bottle, and she watched as the burgundy liquid poured through space and spilled into the glass. A few droplets bounced back up and plopped next to her elbow.

She'd never really wanted to die, before. Hardly thought about it. The realism of such a thing was introduced to her when her mother died; she was young, and some begotten neighborhood woman tried to tell her that her mother was somewhere else now, somewhere safe and warm, as if she was fine and could even come back to see Riza again. Even at that age, Riza had thought what a fool the woman was making herself to be. She understood that her mother was not coming back.

In the years following, Death almost seemed like a strange village man, wandering around familiarly and waving to Riza as if they'd seen each other's faces for some time. Perhaps they did not know the other's name, perhaps they'd never spoken a word of communication, but they recognized the other and felt comfortable with their existence.

But then Death became Riza's personal goader, perching itself high on her shoulder and ghosting it's hollow fingers around hers each time she squeezed the trigger. It ate meals with her and burrowed into her pillow when she laid down to sleep. It learned how to speak her language and how to replicate her mannerisms until it became her and she became it. She felt herself take on it's role in physical form, carrying out its demands willingly until she lost sight of who was making the calls.

In the years following, Death almost seemed like a strange village man, wandering around familiarly and nodding to Riza as if they'd seen each other's faces for some time. Perhaps they did not know the other's name, perhaps they'd never spoken a word of communication, but they recognized each other. Felt comfortable with one another's existence. Accepted, acknowledged, _grew fond of a familiar face no matter its gravity..._

She'd taken the lives of hundreds of Ishvalans. She'd shot and killed men, women, and that one child who was hidden behind the body of her target. Why should she live when they can't, and why should she deny Death her companionship when they clearly were so meant for one another?

Her head kicked back at the drain of another glass.

She wasn't going to kill herself, she thought dully. She didn't really hold much of a desire for that.

She also didn't want to be alive.

She didn't want to see their faces anymore. She didn't want to keep collapsing in the bathroom, clutching her chest and covering her eyes and forcing her heaving sobs to remain silent so no one in the hall outside could hear her. She didn't want to hear the nonexistent _boom_ s of gunfire in the back of her ears when she closed her eyes. She didn't want to entertain the void of jagged pangs of guilt, sorrow, horror, and hate that had found refuge in her stomach anymore. Everything was far too much, and the remaining amount of whiskey in the bottle was far too little, and the act of breathing and walking was weighing heavily on her.

It's simply a particularly bad day, she attempted to reason. It was true, after all. She had days that were fine, where she may not hear the sound of screams for almost an entire afternoon. She may even feel the poking of appetite on those days. She could help her newly promoted Lieutenant Colonel to get through the day without pulling his own hair out and maybe smile at a witty side comment from him.

Today was not that day. Today she wanted to grow still for the rest of time, right there in that rickety chair, and never be required to move again.

Except, of course, to pour another glass. And she did.

* * *

At some point, the suffocation of the apartment became too great. She'd gone past the point of the walls spinning round and round, and now she wanted nothing more than to just _move_. Her legs were burning, like pinpoints of fire pricking at her to get up and walk around, lest she lose her mind and turn into a pile of dust.

"Did I lock the door?" she slumbered to herself as she walked down the building's corridor. Everything moved, but she was unsure if she herself was. "Doesn' matter…" Just get outside and breath the fresh air, do that. Do that.

It was past midnight, that was the only thing she knew. It could have been midnight, or it could have been three in the morning; she wasn't certain. She wasn't bothered to care. The building's door opened easily for her and the January air welcomed her like a friend, cooling her flushed skin and opening her airways wonderfully.

For a wild moment, she thought the alcohol had finally forced her mad because the world was pivoting so quickly, but the spinning images jerked to a halt just as fast and she found herself hissing in pain as she forced her arm out from beneath her. She was at the bottom of the building's steps, and she was also on the ground. She heard a clinking and shifting sound and her head lulled as she sat up further, her brow furrowed and her eyes looking down at the cold cement.

There were shards of broken glass littered together beneath her. Burgundy whiskey shimmied around it, thinly dripping down into the cement's crevices. Had she been carrying that this whole time?

She let out a small noise of disgust at seeing the spilled alcohol all over her hand and wrist, dripping grossly to join its family on the cement. She narrowed her eyes and brought her head closer to it-

-it was blood. The liquid was blood. She turned her arm over and saw a small shard embedded in her skin, right next to the area where a person may check for a pulse. She stared at the wound curiously, watching the blood pool out and around the glass, falling down her skin and following the call of gravity onto the ground. She could barely feel the pain. The way the trail moved, how the large beads of blood pushed out from her body, fascinated her. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she almost felt a pleasure at seeing it.

She forced herself to stand up and ran her good hand over her black civilian slacks, hearing the jingle of a few pieces of glass being dusted off. Glancing around, she confirmed she was still alone. She walked forward with the continuous intent on her promise of a stroll through the empty streets.

An electric jostle of pain rolled up to her elbow with every swing of her arm, and she made a point not to keep it still.

* * *

The sun was so bright, it felt as though it were roasting her corneas straight through her eyelids. Hardly a second after feeling the laser rays scorch her eyes, she felt the unmistakable roll of nausea swirl around her stomach and she leapt upwards, the sun and it's heat and her exhaustion completely forgotten. The act of standing so quickly only worsened the rush of sickness, and she barely made it to her toilet before heaving deeply. Her hands gripped the sides of the toilet bowl as her diaphragm continued to contract, vomit spilling into the basin.

She finally felt the contents of her stomach empty completely, and she sat back against the wall with a huff. She sat there breathing hard, concentrating on keeping the airflow long and steady rather than short and choppy. Something caught her eye and her gaze flicked over to the toilet. There was blood on the porcelain, where her hand had been, sitting there smugly as she stared. With a gnawing feeling, she looked down at her arm, and at the plethora of dried and wet blood smothered across it. The glass inside her flesh glinted off the sunlight coming through the window.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me…"

She softly kicked her head back against the wall, looking upwards. What in God's name was wrong with her? How could she have lost control like that last night? What kind of woman, what kind of soldier, was she? So drunk, so lost, that she'd barely managed to stumble back into her apartment and pass out without even _bandaging_ her wrist. She wasn't even able to muster the mind to remove _glass from her arm_.

She braced her good palm against the floor and forced herself to stand. In her exhausted, weakened state, she felt the skin on her back ache terribly. It hadn't ached for weeks, and feeling its moan of pain again only further plummeted her spirits. She reminded herself of the liberation the ache alluded to and she forced down her self-pity.

She desperately needed to urinate, but the toilet was spotted with blood and the room smelled like sickness. Holding her breath, she did a quick wipe down of the toilet and peed as quickly as she could manage.

She was again greeted by the blinding light of the sun as she stepped back into the living room and she squinted painfully, from both the sun and her wound. The more time she spent conscious, the more apparent the dense ache emanating from her wrist became, and although she'd puked the immediate toxins out from her system she knew the nausea wouldn't subside for hours. She decided not to dwell on it; she deserved the afflictions from the night prior.

She quickly compiled the supplies she needed on the kitchen counter: rubbing alcohol, pliers, thread, a needle, and a spool of bandages. She braced her arm down against the counter, leaning forward slightly to keep it tight and still. She reached over with her other arm and ran the faucet, then picked up the pliers and positioned them above the shard of glass poking out from her arm. By this point, most of the shard was smudged with dried blood and the glass had soaked in its reddish color. She took in a short breath and released it, softly clamping the tongs of the tool against each side of the shard.

She began to pull slowly, carefully, and felt the shard shift in her flesh.

" _Agh, fuck!_ " she cried out, bending over the counter and feeling the nerves in her arm light up in agony. She couldn't even feel her petulant nausea any more, the intense throbbing of her hand being the only thing she was aware of.

A small whimper accompanied her exhale, and she continued the pliers' ascent and pulled it backwards. The nerves wailed, screamed in protest, but she grit her teeth and cried out in anger with them, continuing to pull backwards and watching fresh blood coil out from the emptying wound. She felt thin pieces of tissue tear as the glass continued to rise with the pliers. She felt her muscles begin to shake, her breath was becoming quaky, but the fury in her mind rivaled the pain in her skin and finally, after a final retaliating wave of pain, the resistance on the end of the glass disappeared and it was almost weightless in between the prongs of the pliers. She dropped the tool and it's bloody contents into the sink as if it were hot and folded over the counter, feeling her wrist pulse and her mind blacken briefly. She let out a shaky moan of pain.

Her nausea shoved upwards into her throat and the muscles in her thighs felt weak, but still she shifted her arm over to hover above the sink, the newly awakened blood plinking onto the steel. She reached for the rubbing alcohol, popped open the lid with her thumb, and squeezed the clear liquid onto her wrist before she had the chance to think about it.

" _Fuck, fuck!"_ she cursed again, her face twisting in pain and her stomach doing flips of turmoil. She continued flushing her wrist despite her nerves' plea to stop and she kicked into the bottom cupboard in an attempt to redirect the pain, the wood slapping against her bare foot. Her arm felt as though it was being shredded by a bouquet of five inch blades, every cell was alight and shrieking, and she let out an agonized war cry and forced herself to remain still for another four seconds before she couldn't stand the torture any longer. She dropped the bottle onto the counter without bothering to close the lid.

The flush was as good as it was going to get regardless, and she wasted no time in drying the area and reaching for the thread and needle, but looked back at the gauze closed around her wrist and saw it to be filling with red liquid. It was bleeding too much to stitch. Managing to stop herself from rolling her eyes in utter frustration, she simply wrapped the bandage around the area as tightly as possible before moving on to don her uniform. The compression would stop the bleeding before long and she would stitch it then; for now, she was to thank the stars that she managed to wake when the sun did so not to be late for work.

* * *

"Good morning, Warrant Officer Hawkeye," said the receptionist at the front desk pleasantly. There were three different types of clocks on the wall behind her and wallpaper gleaned eggshell. Hawkeye nodded to her as she passed by.

"Good morning, Josie."

The walk up the stairs was surprisingly menacing, and she opted to use the wooden handrail she admittedly didn't know was there before. Her boots clonked softly at each step until she reached the top.

Something unsavory kneaded at the bottom of her stomach and she inwardly cursed it and told it off; at this point, the stubborn nausea was officially a nuisance she didn't have time for. Her wrist pinged painfully and she swept herself into the corridor's head.

The room was thankfully empty and, hoping that no lady would desire the toilet anytime soon, she turned around and switched the lock shut. She stood there for a moment, gauging the churns in her belly. She decided they were too small for action and would just have to disappear on their own. The bandage, however…

She shook her arm a bit to force the sleeve up, and it pushed back to reveal the very soiled looking bandage. Wrapping the evidence in toilet paper, she tossed it into the waste bin and held her wrist over the sink. The wound was deep and almost an inch in length; the bleeding seemed to have slowed enough to eradicate cause for concern, but her skin was still splotched with dips of dried blood. Small beadlets oozed out as the wound was exposed to air, as if coming out from a burrow to see the sun. Riza quickly rewrapped her wrist with white bandages.

The day progressed normally otherwise. She thought Mustang's eyes had lingered on her a tad longer than usual when she entered the room, and for moment she was afraid he could see how shamefully hungover she was, but he asked her for a manilla folder in the back cabinet and said nothing else. She had breathed a silent sigh of relief and gladly retrieved the folder for him.

"How do you feel about an addition to our little team, Warrant Officer?" he asked her an hour later, as they sat at their perpendicular desks. They worked in a large conference room with several other officers and soldiers, along with a receptionist near the door who had little better to do than reorganize files and answer the scarcely ringing phone. Hawkeye glanced up from her daily report and stealthily slipped her injured hand into her lap.

"Sir?"

"I've recently met a soldier, joined after the war...he seems like a good man. Honest."

"Hm. Rare to come by these days."

"Exactly."

"I'm still unsure of your intent, though, sir..."

"Hawkeye, if I'm going to reach the top, I need support. I need a team. And once I make Colonel, I'll get my own office, a place where we can work without," he looked around at the yawning officers, the bored receptionist, the indifferent communications officer eating a sandwich, "without all of this. Where we can speak, and work, freely. You are the backbone, but I need limbs. We need a team. What do you think about starting that expansion with this guy?"

"I think whatever opinion and plan you have for the future is what ought to be enacted, and therefore my input is obsolete."

Speaking to him now, looking into his eyes and holding a conversation, Riza found that she wanted to cower under a rock of shame for who she had become the night prior. Here he spoke of something better, something more...Here he spoke of a bright future that he could help create…

And there she had been, drinking herself stupid until she could hardly recall the letters of the alphabet.

It had only been a year since their return from Ishval, but in that year she had discovered two things: she was never going to be good enough to change the world, and he was. Her only chance of some sliver of rectification was in the form of helping Roy Mustang reach the top and last night, she had compromised that.

"Did you hear me?"

She was staring right him, but her head was buzzing too loudly with her own thoughts. She raised her eyebrows.

"Hmm?" She cursed herself for how distracted she sounded.

"I said that you were wrong…"

Her stomach dropped a level; what was she wrong about? What had she said before?

"Your opinion is of paramount importance."

She stared at him.

"You and I are a team, Hawkeye," he continued. "I understand that I make the final command, that I am the superior officer who requested you be assigned as my aide...but I asked you as my aide because I value your advice. I find commendability and importance in your opinion."

Her stomach continued to sink. What he thought she was, she wasn't sure. Why he was under the impression that she was capable of anything noteworthy, of being something of an equal to him…

He was simply made of something purer than she.

"So, Hawkeye...should we pay this guy a visit and bribe him over?"

After a moment, she nodded. The wrist in her lap shot a whip of pain up her forearm but she ignored it.

"Yes, sir...I think we should." She realized as she said it that she meant it - for the first time that day, she felt a short swell of hope. Her voice lowered so only he could hear. "If we're going to go after the many heads of the high brass, we'll need more than just two ourselves."

A small smile played across his features and he nodded once.

"As I thought." He picked something up from his desk and slipped it onto hers. It was a thin file.

"His name is Havoc."

* * *

As the end of the day approached, Riza found herself counting the minutes - a habit she never enticed. Her appetite had been nil, and her arm was erring on the side of torture. She desired nothing more than to put a few stitches in her skin, pop several painkillers, and drift to sleep.

Their CO, General Yjupin, stepped into the room and every person sitting in a chair snapped to attention. Yjupin reciprocated the salute, dismissed them for the day, and turned back the way he had came. The room relaxed and began to gather their coats and bags. The phone rang and the receptionist chattered happily into it as if speaking to a friend.

"Oh," Mustang pivoted around and looked at Riza, then scanned his desk in search of something. "We need to turn in those forms today. Those EOD Patrol Protocol papers…"

"I gave the folder to you, sir, before lunch. You said you'd sign them. You _did_ sign the papers, right, sir?"

She half lifted an eyebrow at him. She didn't trust his dependability in regards to paperwork. He responded with a smirk.

"Yes, Warrant Officer, I did sign them...but what did I do with them afterwards?" He reached his hand out and swept aside a few papers and binders on his desk. Suddenly he stood upright in remembrance and inherited a self deprecating look.

"Of course, I left them on Major Hanley's desk. I set them down when I passed by to get to the coffee pot." He made to step around his chair to start towards the communications area, where Hanley served as the Communications Officer, but stopped as the receptionist called gaily for him.

"Oh, Lieutenant Colonel! My friend, her name is Haddy," she giggled into the phone's receiver. "She has a question about where you uniformed men get those boots of yours…" She stifled another fit of giggles. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant Colonel Mustang, I told her you'd know."

"Who do you think I am, some kind of uncivilized butcher who can't hardly count to ten?" he answered back theatrically. Riza bit down the urge to roll her eyes; there was a reason he held the reputation of being the most charismatic man in East City. "Of course I've got dear old Haddy's answer, I'll be right over, Martha dear."

Martha the Receptionist nodded and smiled gleefully into the phone. Mustang's wide grin unscrewed for a brief moment as he turned back to Hawkeye.

"Would you get those folders, please? Hanley's desk." He turned back towards Martha and slapped the smile back on. "Alright, Haddy, be prepared to have your mind blown. We have these men called _uniform supply_ administrators, you see?"

Hawkeye did roll her eyes this time as he stepped across the room to speak with the bubbling receptionist and her possibly made-up friend on the phone. She turned around and started towards the other side of the room, where Hanley's assigned area was. There were several stacks of notecards on his desk, strewn along with a worn looking book and a few legal pads. She spotted the folder easily, laying on the corner where Mustang had absentmindedly put it down.

She picked it up and flipped it open, her eyes scanning the first page to ensure the forms belonged to she and her lieutenant colonel. She noted the correct names and information and flipped it back shut.

Just as she was doing so, a hand came from nowhere and grasped her wrist like a whip. She could not stop herself from gasping at the sudden sharp thrust of pain in the wound beneath the hand's fingers. The papers fell from her grip and fluttered messily to the ground.

"Gettin' real ballsy, aren't you, Warrant Officer?" growled the agitated voice of Major Hanley. His fingers were like an iron grip on her wrist. "Tryin'a snoop around my shit, I don't think so."

Quickly recovering from the immediate shock of his action, Hawkeye ripped her wrist out from his hand. It shrieked at her manically but she bade it no attention.

"Excuse my intrusion, Major, I was only retrieving a file I had misplaced earlier today. I assure you the papers are mine." She bent to gather the scattered papers, but Hanley's hand shot out again and snagged her elbow, yanking her back upwards with a force that made her stumble forward.

"You'd better watch your tone and mind your place." His voice was deep and guttural, and near threatening. Hawkeye's elbow was lifted even with her shoulder and made her arm ache severely. Her professional mask almost fell immediately and she opened her mouth to say something she would later realize would have been a mistake; fortunately, she never had the chance to say it.

"Can you tell me why your hand is on my warrant officer, Major Hanley?"

Mustang had appeared suddenly and silently, standing before the two lower ranks. Hanley released her elbow aggressively.

"I was only telling your warrant officer where to keep her nose."

"Do me a favor and pick those papers up, Major," said Mustang cooly.

"Uh, sir?"

"I want you to pick up those papers and look at them."

Hanley eyed him warily for a moment, but judged that he ought not further question a superior officer. His knees bent and he quickly swept the papers into the fallen folder before rising back to his height. His eyes traveled over the papers briefly, scanning side to side with a scrutinizing expression - until his face fell in recognition. He silently flipped the folder closed.

"Now hand that folder back to my warrant officer."

He did so. Mustang's voice lowered.

"And do not ever lay a hand on her or speak to her in that way again. And I suggest that if you have something to hide, which you so obviously do, keep it at home where the rest of your filth is."

Riza's eyes widened slightly as she stared at a spot on the carpet. She hadn't been expecting that reaction from him, and if she wasn't mistaken, beneath his frighteningly calm demeanor, his voice seemed to be laden with anger. Mustang turned on his heel and added over his shoulder, "Let's go, Warrant Officer."

Riza needed no other telling and followed him out from the room, ignoring the trailing eyes of a mildly shocked Martha.

"Um," started Riza as they reached the hall. "Uh, thank you sir."

"Mhmm," he responded in a brief staccato. Riza sensed something coming off his shoulders, but she could not identify it and therefore did not respond. As they reached the end of the hall, Mustang opened the door of a supply closet. Riza stared at him blankly.

"That's not the exit, sir…"

"Sure isn't."

Their eyes locked for several moments as they regarded one another. He seemed upset - with her. His face held that no-nonsense expression he adopted when he meant business, and he stared at her with it infallibly. She jut her jaw out to the side and walked past him into the closet, where he joined her and shut the door. It was dark for only a moment before he pulled on the rope hanging from the ceiling. The light buzzed to life pathetically, illuminating the dusty old boxes that were filled with junk and cleaning bottles. One pallet near the ground held the remains of a large, rusty old plaque lined with silver.

"Are you alright?" His expression of stone softened. He again managed to catch her off guard, and she felt a curious flutter in her stomach.

"Yes, sir, of course-"

"Hawkeye, I heard you gasp all the way across the room. He hurt you."

"Well, I-he didn't, I mean he did, but it wasn't because-"

"Can I see your arm, please?"

Her chest tightened with panic. His voice was eerily calm, but everything inside her was racing wildly. This was the moment she had spent the entire day avoiding, the moment she so meticulously sidestepped and feared, and it was now unfolding before her very eyes. She hesitated obviously and his head turned ever so slightly to the side.

"I could see the bandage as I was leaving Martha's desk, when he grabbed your elbow." He motioned towards her arm. "Let me see it."

She downed the pill of acceptance and wordlessly lifted her arm, and he gently held it up as his other hand slid the sleeve back. Riza tongued the side of her mouth as she looked at it; she hadn't realized that wound was still bleeding. A large bright spot of red was at the center of her bandage.

"Hawkeye…" His voice was filled with subdued shock. "What is this?"

She swallowed and opened her mouth, but couldn't find the words so easily. He didn't wait for an answer and he took the tail of the bandage between his fingers, quickly uncoiling it from her wrist until they both could see the angry, swollen rip in Hawkeye's flesh. Mustang's face darkened. He hardly spoke above a whisper.

"What happened? When?"

"Last night, sir…" Her voice sounded so small.

"Who was it? Why didn't you tell me?"

"What?" She jerked her head up. "No one, sir, no one...no one did this. It was me."

At the look on his face, the way a strange recognition drifted over his features and his eyes widened slowly, how his gentle fingers tightened suddenly...she knew she said the wrong thing.

"Oh, not-not like that sir, I didn't... " She had never so often been for a loss of words. Her mouth moved silently as she tried to find them. "It wasn't on...purpose, I mean. It was an accident."

Still looking only at the wound, she saw his shoulders briefly lose their tension.

"Then I need an explanation of what happened, now. And why haven't you gone to the medical bay?"

"I just thought I'd take care of it myself, sir…"

"It needs stitches, Hawkeye, look at it. Now tell me _what happened_ ," he repeated more sharply, though not unkindly. She knew he was growing impatient of not receiving the answers he requested. She suppressed a deep sigh.

"I fell on a piece of glass, that's all."

"How does that happen? Were you wrestling with a fishtank?"

She felt a corner of her mouth tug upwards. His voice was still serious, still upset, but she could hear his attempt of making her smile in the words. Perhaps she was looking too stricken; she forced herself to straighten and look him in the eye.

It was at that moment that she realized what she needed to do, and that tangoing and slipping around it any longer was futile. Her back straightened further and her face fell into a mask, and she slipped her hand out from his and dropped it to her side.

"I bought a bottle of whiskey, drank most of it, and fell on it hours later, sir," she said without emotion.

The small room was very silent, then. She felt the sides of her arms threaten to shake and it had nothing to do with her physical condition. She stared straight ahead, listening to the buzz of the light, drowning in her own dislike.

"Ah," he said softly. Dread suffocated her insides.

She suddenly felt the soft tug of Mustang pulling her into his arms and he wrapped himself around her in a deep hug, his embrace warm and close. He held the back of her shoulders and lower spine tightly. She was frozen, entirely shocked at his contact - besides their experience about a year ago, when he granted her that one true wish, and in fact _because_ of that, they had barely even brushed shoulders until this moment.

"Sometimes I can go days without sleeping," he said beside her. "I see things when I close my eyes and I drink to drown out the sounds. I understand, and I'm sorry…"

Still too stunned to speak, Riza just watched as Mustang released her and held the sides of her shoulders.

"That feeling, like you're losing control...like your chest is being crushed and there's nothing you can do about it. Like you're made of something unsavory and tasteless, and you're destined to numb yourself forever or else you'll go mad...it's the worst feeling in the world, Hawkeye, I know."

Finding her mind, Riza slowly unfroze herself. She barely nodded once in acknowledgement.

"I'm sorry, sir...I know I shouldn't have lost myself like that. It won't happen again."

"Yes, it will," he said with a sad smile. "And that's alright. But please, don't walk around with an open wound anymore, alright? There's loads of bacteria and pests who go by the name of Hanley around here. We don't want it to become infected. That's your shooting hand, after all, and I have a feeling I'll need it around for awhile."

"Of course, not, sir...I'll take care of it straight when I arrive home."

"No no, we're going to the medical bay. I've seen you sew a patch, Warrant Officer, I don't believe you should put a needle anywhere near your own skin."

She smiled and looked down. She pursed her lips and nodded.

"I suppose you're right," she said as he made to open the supply door. Before he did, however, he looked down at her and she felt something cold run down her spine at the intensity of his gaze.

"If he so much as gives you a dirty look ever again, tomorrow or ten years from now, I want to know. And if he ever touches you, you have my permission to shoot him."

She looked into his eyes, searching for the hint of a joke, but she couldn't find it. He opened the door and gestured forward.

"Let's get that stitched up and find something to eat," he said with a lopsided smile. The rich darkness that had been nesting in her mind suddenly didn't seem so thick, and it brightened just a shade at the way he raised his eyebrows expectantly. She returned the smile before nodding once.

"Yes, sir."


End file.
